It's a Sick Sick Fic
by Chairman-Meowith
Summary: Lol again I'm bad at titles. So who takes care of the doctor when he's sick? Sherlock of course. Just a fairly standard sick fic I already know what John has, but you don't and I haven't decided when I'm going to tell you. It's a slight John whump. I thought it'd be interesting to write about what Sherlock does so here you go. I hope this summary was adequate. Implied slash maybe?
1. Chapter 1

**AN: As usual R&R and I apologize for any inconsistencies with the story and show. :) Six episodes isn't a lot to go on. Also I wrote this at one in the morning. And this is the first time I've really written Sherlock cause last time he was pretty out of it. And sorry if Sherlock gets a little OOC**

John walked out of his bedroom and into the kitchen. Sherlock was, as usual, already awake.

"Morning." Muttered John as he went past Sherlock to make the coffee. Much to his surprise there was already coffee in the pot. That was fairly unusual. Generally Sherlock would wait for him to make it whenever he got up. He would proclaim that he had been to busy thinking to bother with coffee. That didn't prevent him from immediately getting a cup after Watson had made it though.

"I'm sure you're wondering why I made coffee this morning. Normally I would wait for you, but since I can't have a nicotine patch and you slept in until eleven o'clock I felt obligated to." John looked up at the clock. It was indeed just past eleven.

"Sorry." He grumbled as he reached for the coffee. Sherlock flipped a page in the newspaper and looked insolently up at John as he continued his quest for caffeine.

"Feeling a little under the weather today are we John?" Watson ignored this and sat opposite Sherlock. He wasn't even sure why he bothered sitting at the dining table as it was perpetually covered with Sherlock's clutter. Then again so was everything else. He sipped his coffee, trying to ignore it's overly bitter flavour. He looked up to see Sherlock watching him.

"Normally you complain when I make the coffee that bad." John glared fiercely at him.

"You did this deliberately Sherlock?" He demanded. "Christ's sake I just wanted some coffee." Sherlock raised a single eyebrow. "Don't look at me like that. I'm not in the mood for your games today." Sherlock's expression changed to one of mild concern.

"You sure you're alright John?" Watson was spared from replying by the screech of the kettle. His head pounded while Sherlock made himself tea. Evidently Sherlock was aware that the coffee was truly awful this morning. John buried his head in his arms and jumped when he felt a hand on his shoulder.

"Back to bed then, John?" He tried to shake his head, but the effort made the room spin. "Come on, up you get." Sherlock grunted as he helped John stand.

"I can walk Sherlock." Groused the doctor when Holmes didn't immediately release him.

"Yes I'm sure you can, but I don't want you knocking into my experiment. You'd probably ruin the whole thing. Oh well, plus there's also a highly corrosive acid that could cause you significant damage if any got on your skin." Sherlock began to lead John into the bedroom.

"Where are we going?" Mumbled the invalid.

"My bedroom, obviously." John stopped walking and Sherlock made the incredibly annoying face at him. "Your bedroom's on the next floor. The stairs are very narrow and I don't feel like traipsing up and down the stairs whenever you require assistance. It would also be difficult to get you up there right now. A struggle which at this point in time is completely unnecessary. My bedroom is right here and convenient. Need I go on?" The doctor shook his head mutely. Sherlock sat John on the bed. He immediately flopped over. "If you get worse just shout at me." And with that the detective had gone. John felt a little strange, sleeping in Sherlock's bed. He had been so taken aback by the hitherto unprecedented show of compassion he didn't have time to react. John wasn't sure how long he had been lying there when he began to shiver. He curled up on top of the covers and wished he could just die already. Shortly after he began shivering he began to ache all over. The deep tired sort of ache that makes you wish for rest, but permits none. There was a soft knock at the door.

"Watson it's Holmes. I'm coming in." Sherlock swirled into the room and glanced at John and clasped his hands. "All right, you've clearly got a fever. Probably achy and in pain, also judging by the way you were in the kitchen I'd say that your headache can only have gotten worse. I will be back in a moment." Just as swiftly as he had come, he was gone. John crawled under the blankets and buried his head under them. He tried to ignore Sherlock when he re-entered the room. This proved to be entirely futile as Sherlock just pulled his blankets back.

"Don't bother hiding I know where you are." John tried to get back under the blanket, but Sherlock still appeared to be holding it hostage.

"Gimme that. I'm dying." Moaned John as Sherlock just stood grinning wickedly.

"Course not. John Watson die? Don't be absurd you've just caught a bug." John wondered briefly whether this was Sherlock being nice, or deliberately being an ass. He abandoned this line of thinking as fruitless, of course he was being awful, that's what Sherlock did.

"Go away," he griped quietly. Sherlock rolled his eyes and tossed the blanket back over him.

"Nonsense, I have medication, but I really suppose if you'd rather I leave..." He trailed off. Watson rolled over and looked up at Sherlock who was smirking down at him. Well the Sherlock face that equated to a smirk, _he _would never be that undignified.

"Bloody Hell Sherlock, just give me the drugs." Sherlock sat on the bed beside him. He was deceptively gentle as he helped John to sit and poured some of the purple liquid into a spoon. John reached for it, fingers trembling.

"Absolutely not. You're shaking John." Watson looked down at his hands and noticed that they were indeed quivering.

"So what?"

"So I'm not going to let you spill that wretched goo all over my bed. Look at my duvet it's spotless, you'll ruin it. Now open your mouth." John did as he was told, glaring all the while. Sherlock deliberately tilted the spoon into his mouth. When the vile liquid touched his tongue John felt his stomach surge.

"Sherlock!" Gasped John just before he threw up. Luckily Sherlock had gotten the message and the bucket just in time. Sherlock held the wastebasket as John lost the entire contents of his stomach and continued to dry heave.

"Well that was rather unpleasant." Sherlock remarked calmly when he was done.

"You think?" Asked John crossly.

"Hold this I'll be back in a moment." Sherlock handed the bin of sick to John and jumped off the bed. The sound of the tap running permeated the flat. It was a pleasant sound, thought John. He began to relax only to be jolted back when he almost dropped the wastebasket. Sherlock re-emerged carrying a glass of water, washcloth and thermometer. John scowled up at him. Sherlock set the cloth and cup on the bedside table. He then took the basket from John and set that well out of the way on the floor.

"Open up, John." The doctor flushed deep scarlet.

"I can take care of myself Sherlock." he protested.

"If you were capable of taking care of yourself you obviously wouldn't be sick. Now open." John complied unwillingly. "Don't look at me like that I'm being helpful and _kind._ Think about it John when am I ever kind? You should take advantage." The thermometer beeped and Sherlock pulled it out of John's mouth. "Not too bad only about one oh one."

"Sherlock?"

"What is it John?"

"I feel like shit right now."

"Sorry John."


	2. Chapter 2

**An: Here's chapter two. I'm sorry it's kind of an awkward break in the scene, but that felt like where I should stop. So ya whatever, read this. I also stuck a teensy tiny Doctor Who reference in there :) I really couldn't resist :3 And I might switch between Celsius and Fahrenheit because honestly I can't remember what Canada uses XD**

After Sherlock had administered the water and applied the damp cloth to John's forehead he left his friend to get some sleep. John listened to Sherlock playing his violin drowsily. He never really like to call it practice because that would imply mistakes and John never really heard any. Sherlock was playing something by Debussy. John wasn't quite sure what, but it was quiet and melodic and absolutely beautiful. He was asleep within moments.

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**There's the proper end to that chapter sorry XD**

John woke up coughing. It was a dry hacking cough that wracked his entire body.

"Sherl-" He wheezed. "Sherlock!" The detective did not appear. John tried to stay calm. He breathed slowly and shallowly, trying to avoid exerting himself.

"Sherlock!" He shouted, instantly regretting it when more coughs burst from his chest. There were no answering footsteps. John rolled over, tried to get up and fell off the bed. The world spun and John was violently sick. He crawled to the bathroom. He even made it to the toilet before he was sick again. John lay down on the cool tiles. The world swam in and out of focus and soon enough John was asleep again, but it wasn't long before John had woken, coughing again. He gasped for air, trembling badly. When he could breathe again he curled into a ball, his face still pressed to the chilled floor. He desperately wished that Sherlock would come home. His breath felt wrong and bubbly and as much as he hated to admit it, he needed help. As if in answer to his prayers John heard the door swing open. Familiar footsteps echoed through the flat and he could hear Sherlock calling him. He didn't want to answer in case it brought on another fit of coughing. His chest was achy and sore and his breathe crackled in his chest. Sherlock appeared in the bathroom doorway.

"Goodness you don't look well at all. Did you know you're covered with sick John?" John didn't have the breath to reply. He simply glared up at Sherlock. "Let's get you cleaned up then." Sherlock turned on the bathtub tap. "Have a bath, get fixed up and then I'll get you back to bed. Sound good?" John nodded mutely. Sherlock glided out of the room, shutting the door behind him. He listened for sounds of John getting into the tub, then removed his coat and gloves. He was tempted to put his jimjams back on, but decided there were more pressing matters at hand. He removed various items from his pockets and set them down on the table. He went to the kitchen and made soup, without burning it or setting anything on fire even. Feeling rather pleased with himself he entered his room and turned on the lights. He had originally planned to set the soup on his bedside table and let John eat in his bed, but it appeared that his bedroom needed a bit of attention before John could return there. He quickly left the room as the smell threatened to overwhelm him. He cleared some of his papers off the coffee table and set the soup there. He returned to the bathroom to find that John had discovered fresh pyjamas somewhere and was leaning against the sink, waiting for Sherlock.

"I made you soup." Announced Sherlock.

"No you didn't." Rasped John. "You heated up the soup."

"Oh relax, it's the same thing."

"And you reheated the tomato soup right? Not the pint of blood in the fridge?"

"I had a pint of blood in the fridge?" Sherlock seemed surprised. He ran to the offending appliance and yanked open the door.

"The blood's still there right?" John managed to call hoarsely. Sherlock sighed in relief.

"Yes the blood is still there." He returned to the bathroom and helped John to the couch. "Do you have a stethoscope lying around anywhere, John?" Watson nodded.

"In the bag over there." Sherlock returned with the instrument and held it against John's chest.

"Take a deep breath." Watson shook his head.

"Please don't make me." He whispered.

"Deep breath John. I need to make sure you have what I think you have before I fix it." The doctor took a deep, ragged breath and immediately started hacking. Sherlock thumped him on the back once and again, more gently on the chest. John gasped in air and Sherlock held up the trash can, which he spat into gratefully.

"Thanks," He croaked, once he had caught his breath. Sherlock nodded.

"Now before you drink that I want to take your temperature again." John was to exhausted to argue. He willingly opened his mouth and let Sherlock stick the thermometer in. When it beeped Sherlock examined it closely.

"Hmm, 102 degrees. That's worse than yesterday." John sighed and leaned back against the couch. "Alright you need to eat this."

"I don't feel like it." Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"I know you don't feel like it, but it's been what... Two days since you last ate?" He nodded grumpily. "Now do you think you can manage to feed yourself or do you need my help?" John stared at him for a moment.

"Need help." He mumbled crossly. Sherlock didn't manage to feed him very much. John was able to manage less than half the bowl. "Gunna be sick." He gasped. Sherlock looked around frantically for something John could be sick in. There was nothing. He turned back to John just as John was ill, all over his shoes. "Sorry," said John to the floor.

"Don't worry about it. I'll be back in a moment." Sherlock kicked off his shoes and gingerly carried them to the trash in the kitchen. He collected a glass of water for John and padded back to the living room. "Drink this." John took a few sips and made to put the glass down. "All of it, John." The doctor shook his head.

"I can't." Sherlock sighed

"You know what that means right?" John nodded miserably. Sherlock picked up the box he had set on the table and opened it. He deftly assembled the syringe and sucked the drug into it. He tapped the sides, examining the liquid for air bubbles. John held out his arm.

"No John, this goes in your neck. It's for your Pneumonia." John opened his mouth to disagree and promptly closed it. "Sudden onset of fever, aches, chills, loss of appetite, crackling sounds in the lungs, painful cough. Definitely Pneumonia." Announced Sherlock in a very annoying, lecture-y way. John paled. He wasn't sure why he was being so squeamish. He was used to injections, as an army doctor he had given them regularly. There was just something about the thought of a very large, pointy object being jabbed into his neck that he objected to. Sherlock gently took John's chin in his hand and tilted his head away.

"Don't look, it'll only make it worse." He swiped John's neck with an alcohol wipe. His friend was incredibly tense. "Just relax John, it'll be over in a second." He considered tacking on a witty comment, but decided against it. It was probably better to have this done with as quickly as possible and he didn't want to draw out John's torment. Sherlock wasn't entirely sure you could be gentle exactly when giving an injection, but he tried. He knew he hadn't been very successful because John was whimpering with his eyes closed. "Sorry," Sherlock muttered.

"S'alright, good for an amateur." A smile flicked across Sherlock's face.

"I'm going to take that as a compliment. Now you should probably rest on the couch for a bit while I tidy up my room a little."

"S'nothing wrong with your room." Said John without opening his eyes.

"Well no, if you ignore the fact that there is vomit everywhere." The eyes snapped open.

"Sorry, what?"

"I'm not surprised you don't remember. Probably a little delirious with fever. You were sick everywhere and then tracked it over the rest of the flat." Sherlock's tone was more than a little disapproving. Apparently his sympathy only extended so far. "At least you didn't get any on my bed." He sighed and left to clean up after John.

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Once John was resting peacefully in Sherlock's room, with an IV feeding into his arm Sherlock let himself relax. It had been a very long couple of days. He lay on the sofa and closed his eyes for just moment.

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Sherlock awoke to a hand shaking him and a cup of tea near his face. It was John.

"Morning Sherlock."

"Why are you not asleep? You should be asleep. You were asleep three minutes ago."

"Nope. That was yesterday."

"What do you mean yesterday? How long have I been sleeping?"

"Twelve hours round about. Have some tea."

"What do you mean tea? You're sick I'm supposed to be taking care of you. Not the other way around." He sat up and accepted the steaming mug.

"I didn't feel like being poisoned so I made my own lunch." He shoved some toast into Sherlock's hands.

"Thank you."

"No Sherlock, thank you. Really I mean it."

**An: Thanks for taking the time to read. Also many, many thanks to those who reviewed I appreciate every single one. XD THE ENNNND Send me prompts and I'll see what I can do!**


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